Three Years to Eternity
by Dragon's Daughter 1980
Summary: Trust in dreams, for in them is the hidden gate to eternity.- Khalil Gibran


**Three Years to Eternity**

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

**Disclaimer**: Other than being a fan, I have absolutely _nothing_ to do with Stargate: Atlantis in _any_ way, shape or form.

**Author's Note**: I would like to send an extra-special 'Thank You' to my triplet-sister who, despite knowing nothing about Stargate: Atlantis, acted as my sounding-board, editor and beta-reader for this story.

Also, I apologize to Saint Augustine for intentionally misquoting him…slightly. I'm sorry, but I swear the meaning is the same…almost.

**Spoiler Warning**: _Ghost in the Machine_.

* * *

It's been three years.

_He prays to die as she stands in front of him. He can't deal with this._

_She watches the man who stands in front of her. She wishes she knew him._

Three long years of his heart repeatedly being torn out of his chest, stomped on, and destroyed. The agonizing eternity counted by the days and weeks of healing before he tries to move on, to give her a final rest in his memories. Yet every time he tries, he abruptly comes face to face with cruel, false hope, taunting him with lies and temptation. Mere moments before his scars are torn open again, when his heart is lifted and crushed, flayed until nothingness engulfs him and only duty — to her, to honor, to their people — drives him on.

_She claims she doesn't know who he is._

_He knows it's a lie by the look in her eyes._

Three years since he last touched her face with gentle hands, inhaled her scent of Earth, Atlantis, and just simply _her_, felt her fragile heartbeat fluttering underneath his lips, tasted her on his tongue, seen her most vulnerable moments, the eternity since he whispered to her in the warm darkness. Her memories are tattered, but cherished, even as she fades away from him with every breath. He still has her gifts—of trust, of diplomacy, of faith—held fiercely to his heart as her father's watch keeps time on his bedside table and an earthen pot sits by the window.

_Her words are not the lies they seem. She doesn't remember him. She knows nothing. All she knows is mistrust and suspicion._

_He sees her fear and pretends it's nothing. It doesn't bring back his memories of her in a macabre dance of guilt. He must guard her people against all threats. He will _not_ yield, even if the threat wears her face._

Three years, almost to the _day_, since she died in a cold, sterile room, when she opened her eyes to a never-ending nightmare that would never let her go, an eternal torment that won't fucking end for either of them. She has died in more ways and returned more times than he wants to count, survived and suffered what she never should have ever faced, and lost everything she ever gained. All the while, with him bound in the shadows, helpless to shield her from Fate's capricious blows, bleeding in silence from invisible wounds, screaming soundless cries of ceaseless grief, and praying for an end, for both of them.

_She smiles shyly at him, bravely at the stranger who seems to read her soul with his eyes. He is angry and in pain. For the briefest of moments, she knows it's because of her._

_He ignores her presence, as protocol allows, even as he assigns far more Marines than necessary to escort the delegation. No one else pays close attention to a junior delegate, especially one who cannot be seen unveiled. There are only whispers in the hallways about the woman with emerald eyes and a soothing voice that died a merciless death three years ago._

Two years since she sent herself to her own death.

Again.

While he watched, hands bound by nothing but duty, to see her die. He wonders if his words drove her to the act. He might as well have slit her throat himself. His team still carries her haunted memory with them and stares at clean hands stained with her blood. They are not alone in that dark, heavy guilt. Out of all who have vanished from these graceful halls, she cuts the deepest. She has never been forgotten by all those who knew her, who were supposed to protect her. She is their greatest failure.

_She doesn't mean to slip away from her companions. It's been a long time since her feet have walked a path she doesn't remember knowing. It's instinctive to touch the sliding wall and move out into the air. There is something comforting about this place. Like many times in the past, she wishes she knew why, why the familiarity, why the pull to come _here_ is so strong._

_She blushes at the breach of protocol when a strong gust of wind blows back her hood from her hair and undoes the fastening of her veil. The scent of the sea is familiar, like home, but she has other concerns at hand, like making sure the translucent cloth doesn't flutter away. Before she manages to cover herself again, a woman begins to scream, a chilling cry of fear and grief, of surprise and panic._

_She doesn't know yet she's a ghost._

_He wonders if they made a mistake, agreeing to let her set foot in the city, even if it was one of many compromises struck through long hours of negotiation. There are two Marines tasked to watch her specifically, with orders to shoot if she does something out of line. Somewhere between the polite, yet brutally honest negotiations, and the utter boredom of being on guard duty, he loses track of her. To be fair, it isn't that hard to do since there are eight junior delegates present, two for each of the diplomats, and all of them are veiled and robed in a similar fashion. No one else notices that the assembly is one assistant and two Marines short._

_That is, until Marianne Morris from Biology starts screaming for security, both over the radio and loud enough to be heard without it. He's never run faster in his life, or been brought to a stop so abruptly as he sees her for the first time without the concealing confines of cloth. In that moment, he swears it _is_ her, the real her from before the suffering that took away the woman and leader that she was._

_Despite the unfamiliar emotions of confusion and terror in her expression as she stares at him, he can't find it within himself to stop hoping that it's finally her._

Theirs was a summer love, a winter's hope, an autumn storm, a spring's flowering. It was just for comfort; it was never just for anything. It was never just a fling; it was never forever, except when it was.

They knew, in that unspoken secret between them, their story would end one day, and it would not be a happy one. They didn't try to deceive themselves that there would be a happy ending for them. They knew they were defying the odds every moment they breathed, but it made every breath so much sweeter. They knew that if the truth came out, it would drive them apart because they weren't ready, couldn't be ready, may never be ready for that final confession. They swore silently that they would stand together to face whatever came. They were ready for everything, for losing everything they held dear, except maybe, each other.

_He says that he's stopped dreaming about her, except that he does when the nights are too long and the ghosts return to haunt him. _

_The nights are always too long._

_She has nightmares every night, dreams where there is a woman screaming until her voice gives out, dreams where pain is a never ending fire that engulfs her, dreams where there is no escape, no hope of rescue and instead of bringing grief, it brings relief._

_She wakes in tears._

The only thing they didn't expect was the severity of Fate's cruelty.

Then, there was no need for confessions.

Their story ended in blood and tears and pain and uncertainty. In the unforgiving world, she lost it all to the stars and the darkness of universe, taking his heart with her.

_Before this moment of truth, the rest of the expedition doesn't know. It was an executive decision, made to protect the city from needless pain. It was agreed that she was to be a nameless, unnoticed shadow, her presence tolerated only out of respect for protocol. He tells himself that it was agreed to by all involved because she is reduced in spirit from the woman she had been. If she _really_ was who she looked like, she would have fought to be heard._

_He tells himself that he wasn't disappointed when word came back that she accepted the stipulations on her._

_She has not always done what she's been told to do, but this alliance is important to her people. If her silence will guarantee her people safety and protection, help with the harvest and the sick, she will gladly stay mute for the rest of her life. She owes them this gratitude, for saving the life of a stranger, taking her in from a cold winter two years ago. She doesn't remember her parents, her siblings, her home; she doesn't remember _anything_, not even her own name. She has nothing, except these people and what they have given her, and she would do anything to protect them._

_She tells herself to stay silent now, even as she wishes to speak, to protect herself from the weapons that are leveled at her heart._

People loved her, even when they disliked her. There wasn't a person who wouldn't have pulled her to safety (even if they weren't sold on taking a bullet for her) because she was able to express her innate compassion even though she held herself distant from the rest of the city. She knew everyone by name, made time to talk to them, played mother-authority-friend-leader to all with endless grace and patience. Every time her face and identity was found in the vastness of the galaxy before being subsequently lost, people mourned alongside his private grief.

There is an official memorial in the chapel, where the still-devout light candles to keep the memories of those lost and the hope for those missing alive. He doesn't visit, but he tells the security patrols to be lenient in that sector and if they decide to duck into the room for a few minutes while on duty, he doesn't say anything either. He knows about a balcony at the edge of the living quarters that occasionally gathers flowers and prayers, and how every year, on the anniversary of her capture, a single white rose has found its way to the windows of the control room at midnight. No one has ever remarked on its presence, and that makes it all the more significant.

He owes it to her—his—_their_ people to protect them from everything Pegasus and Fate can throw at them. There are just days when he isn't sure he can take any more of this.

_She doesn't know this (and has absolutely no reason to), but before this, there was an entire month of arguing and counterarguing between the senior expedition members._

_Jennifer and Carson both swear that she's nanite-free and in perfect health. The medical screening that the delegation submitted to before the negotiations began proves that she's human at least. Replicators can't and don't bleed. She does._

_Rodney speculates that she may have Ascended at some point and then gotten kicked out. For once, the man's not upset that she's spent time with the Ancients while he hasn't. It's guilt that makes the normally verbose man so silent._

_Teyla says nothing for or against her, just that this alliance is very important to the city and that all the facts must be considered before a decision is made. He wonders if that is Teyla the wise leader talking instead of Teyla the grieving friend. He doesn't press and she doesn't offer anything more._

_Ronon__ is himself, pointing out the tactical advantage the Marines will have against the unarmed delegation, the superiority of Lantean technology. To anyone who doesn't know him well, it seems that he's completely unfazed by the situation and emotionally detached from the possibilities. He knows better though — the other man is pretending that he isn't entirely freaked out by the whole thing._

_He's not the tiebreaker that admits the delegation into the city. He offers nothing to the discussions, even if he has to be present at these meetings. The tiebreaker vote comes from the least likely of sources: Richard Woosley._

There are moments when he thinks Atlantis loved her in its own way, and grieves her loss with the rest. There are moments when the faintest hint of lavender and Pegasus herbs drift in the air of his quarters, or he hears an echo of lighthearted laughter in the darkened corridors. There is also how the Social Sciences department reports that there have been no Earth-Lantean technical difficulties in over two years despite being un-technology-savvy, a record unrivalled by any other department. People who don't have the ATA gene whisper about odd happenings — lights turning on (or off) by themselves, doors that unlock when people are trapped, power abruptly cutting out to blown circuits before a potentially fatal explosion could occur. It's almost as if the city is looking after her people for her, helping him fulfill her final wishes.

If he ever told Rodney this, the man would think he'd finally gone insane.

_There were long discussions held in full Council chambers about why the Lanteans were so reluctant to have her along. There is concern that she will be a liability to their bargaining—before she was seen unveiled by one of Major Lorne's men, there had been nearly no resistance to the gentle suggestion that protocol dictated an exchange of visits between allies and friends. Will her presence be detrimental to the people's goals, to the treaty itself? Will it pose a danger for all involved? In the family-Home, her family-sisters worry about her safety—what if these Lanteans know more about her than she knows about herself? What if they mean to harm her, to take her away from the family? There is even talk of simply replacing her with another, more junior assistant. It would certainly smooth the way._

_If she is not as strong of spirit and clear-minded as she is, she would not have climbed the ranks of the diplomatic corps so quickly. In full Council, she argues passionately that perhaps her presence will force these strangers to show their true colors. Any alliance entered into with deceit is no alliance at all. If there are secrets, they must come out into the light of knowledge. There may be a large discrepancy of power between their two peoples, but her people will not be blindly forced into servitude. In these troubled times, there are only a few values that must not falter—among several, one is respect, another tradition, the last humble pride. Her people will never be slaves._

_In the privacy of the night, she wonders silently if these strangers are the keys to unlocking her own past. A part of her longs to know her roots, her blood-family, the places where she grew up and the people that she knew. Memories make a person, and she is but a shadow without a long story, certainly not one to match her years. She is always searching for the face, the voice, the gesture that will tell her that she did not appear from the sky, fully grown, that she _does_ have a blood-family, one that is frantically searching for her and praying for her safe return._

_In the back of her mind, though, she fears for the day when strangers come to her family-people and she will not recognize them as kin and kith. She dreams of a horrible moment when she stands surrounded by joyful faces, and knows not a person in the crowd. Will they take her back still, even if her memory never returns? Or will they turn away, and leave her with the people who have cared for her because the life she had is dead and gone?_

_She fears that her story is forgotten, cut short, not because of an accident or the unknowable will of the Ancients, but as punishment. It is her darkest terror that she has committed an unforgivable crime and this life she leads now—stuck between the present and a shifting past—is the penance that has been forced on her._

_So she rejoices and weeps when the news comes that she will join the delegation as a silent observer. She doesn't know why, but her inner voice tells her she must go to the city of the Lanteans. She must face her future, regardless of the truth, and so she goes._

He still remembers the day when Evan and his men returned to Atlantis, clearly on edge but silent, torn between jubilation and frustration. The news had been broken in a terse, harsh whisper at the end of the debriefing.

Needless to say, the debriefing-turned-full-out-meeting didn't end there, and no one slept well that night.

Three years ago, there would have been caution but full celebration at the news. Three years ago, they hadn't met so many versions of her, all claiming to be her in some way, all of them begging the silent plea to be taken home, even if the question was vehemently denied. Three years ago, there wouldn't be anger and frustration at this illogical inability to move on from her death. Three years ago, there wouldn't be a single word about never going back to that planet and blocking that address forever.

It wasn't three years ago. It was six months ago.

Ever since the news broke, he is torn between putting her out of her misery and bringing her home to where she belongs. One action would protect their people from further pain and the other might grant them all a measure of redemption and healing. He struggles with his choices, wondering if this time… if if if… would she approve of what he has done in her name, for her memory?

_Wide-eyed and paralyzed with indecision, she stares at her escort and their comrades. They look at her, not with the hardened look of soldiers, but with befuddlement. They are not alone in that emotion; she has no idea what's going on either. They don't know what to make of the situation, unsure of whether to treat her as friend or foe. At the moment, if she was allowed to speak, she would say she is friend, and even if she was foe, she would be still entirely at their mercy._

_"Stand down," says a man from the back of the group. The men reluctantly obey the order. A moment later, he emerges from the unit to stand in front of her and she recognizes him as the man introduced to the delegation at the beginning of the day. He was the angry man who met her eyes, who refused to acknowledge her existence, who made her wish she could tell him she was sorry for whatever she did that hurt him so deeply. He is the military leader of the Atlantis, commander of its soldiers: Colonel John Sheppard._

_He stares at her for only a heartbeat, but it still feels longer. She blushes when she feels the wind play with the curls of her hair. Her veil is remains unfastened, which is a massive breach of protocol, but she stills her movements when he shakes his head slightly. A part of her wants to hide away under the security of the light fabric; another part soothes that she should do as he asks, so as to not offend._

_To her surprise, he holds out his hand and softly calls her given name — Asabeth — with the correct pronunciation. His expression is gentle now, apologetic. She wonders why the sudden change in behavior as she curls her fingers gently around his palm. There is a deep longing and pain in his eyes as he guides her through the soldiers._

_When she steps over the threshold, back into the corridor proper, she looks up from her spring green dress to find herself in the middle of a vast, silent crowd. Everyone is staring at her. Yet unlike in her dreams, they are not jubilant or welcoming. Rather, they are wary and troubled. Unease makes her press back against him and drains the air from her lungs. As a headache rapidly builds, she skims the faces in the crowd. There is not a face she knows, but she feels as if she should. _Why_ doesn't she know these faces? She has seen them before, she knows it. She knows… Why can't she remember?_

_He notices that she is panicking at the corridor packed full of people, even as she tries to hide it. There are people she should know but doesn't, people who knew her not just as a leader, but also for the woman and human she was, people who grieved just as hard as he did for her deaths. Chuck's hand twitches, an aborted move to reach out to touch her. A moment later, she collapses in his arms, her face ashy gray and breathing shallow._

_Someone immediately calls for a medical team over the radio, even as the delegates push through the crowd to come to her side. One of the junior members, probably her partner (though the veil makes it hard to tell), glares at him as she kneels next to Asabeth — he wonders at the chances of Fate that would give her so similar a name — and touches her unconscious form. The others cluster around, demanding to know what happened. He raises his voice to silence the visitors and orders that all personnel return to their duties._

_No one listens to him. Everyone stays where they are, rooted to the spot, but they part like the Red Sea for the medical team that comes at a full-out run, led by Jennifer. It only takes a few minutes for them to bundle her away on a gurney. Even though a part of him wants to, he doesn't follow. Instead, he turns his attention to calming down the diplomats who are stridently demanding to know why Asabeth fainted, the suspicion and accusation clear in their eyes._

_When he's talked the delegation leaders out of breaking the negotiations entirely and guides them back to Woolsey (who is both impressed by his tact and unhappy that he gets to finish soothing ruffled feathers), he walks out to a balcony for a breather. A minute later, he radios Rodney, Teyla, Ronon, and Lorne. The five of them plan strategy for calming the gossip storm sweeping through Atlantis in whispers and murmurs. They, among others, will have to answer to decisions made in secret for the sake of the expedition, and deal with the consequences of their silence._

_He calls all department heads into a meeting, even as Lorne assembles the men in the barracks. There is a muted uproar at the confessions: yes, we knew she was coming; yes, we kept it a secret; no, she doesn't remember anything; no, we trust you… and so on. By the time the fires have cooled and tempers have been soothed, hours have passed. He finds himself slipping into a quiet infirmary._

_She's asleep in isolation, guarded by Marines in and out of the room, fussed over by the medical staff. Carson says she hasn't stirred, but her vitals are strong and stable, nothing's wrong with her, physically anyway. Asabeth is dreaming, and all they can do is wait for her to wake._

_It's a field of summer blossoms in full flower. Warmth rains down from the clear blue sky above, and the faintest chirps of the songbirds in the forest can be heard. Off in the distance, there is a clear, sparkling lake full of cool mountain water. Even from here, she can see the wildlife pad out from the shadows of the forest to drink. Thirst makes itself known, and so she picks up the full skirts of her light green dress to make her way down the hill._

_That's when she sees her. There is a little girl sitting in the meadow, lap full of color, singing quietly to herself. By her side, garlands of flowers sit in neat towers, as her nimble fingers weave long stems in and out of each other. Her brown hair is tied back from her face in a severe, intricate style that seems far more suited for an elderly matron than a mere slip of a girl._

_She finds herself sitting down next to the child, who doesn't seem to take notice until she suddenly says evenly, "Est autem fides credere quod nondum vides; cuius fidei merces est videre quod credis."_

_"Saint Augustine," she responds automatically, despite knowing none of the words that the child had actually spoken. "For we must believe in what we cannot see, to see what we believe." The little girl smiles and looks up, her innocent eyes sparkling with mirth, "Absolutely correct, Asabeth." She pauses before saying, "but that's not your real name, is it? Ironically enough, it carries the same meaning: Asa – Ancient, Beth- vow, Asabeth being 'the Ancients take my vow;' Elizabeth being from the Hebrew word Elishebha, meaning "God is an oath…" She smiles again, a smug smirk, "But you knew that already, didn't you…Elizabeth?"_

_Elizabeth—called Asabeth for two long years—nods, though she doesn't know why. The little girl sets an armful of roses in her lap, and orders, "Help." She finds herself obeying, despite the sharp thorns that are still on the stems. She has some experience with garland making; it was a task that she was set to during the Spring Festival a few months past. They work in silence._

_"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."_

_"Kahlil Gibran," she responds without thinking. She looks up from the framework of flowers, "Why?"_

_"Why what?" The child does not look up as they speak._

_"Why these quotations from people I've never heard of? Why these quotes? I don't understand."_

_"You _do_ understand. You _do_ know these people."_

_"No, I _don't_. I've _never_—ow," she jerks her finger away from the roses, having forgotten about the thorns. The cut already swells with blood and a single drop of crimson stains her dress. The wound strings and burns a little as she stares at it, frozen with a morbid fascination. The little girl finishes her garland and sets it aside. She chooses one, a crown of white roses, and slips it like a bracelet onto her wrist._

_"You have, you will, you are," she says quietly before bouncing to her feet and announcing cheerfully, "There are reasons. With a name comes a story. With a story comes a lifetime of memories."_

_"I have two names."_

_"No," the child gently corrects, "you have many." She bends down to look at the bleeding gash, "We should wash that."_

_"Yes," agrees Elizabeth in a daze, "we should."_

_The child beams and sets the crown of white roses on Elizabeth's head, the flowers giving off a soft fragrance, before kissing her forehead in blessing. As if suddenly bashful, she bounds away in the skip-hop steps of ebullient youth, the tall meadow grass swaying in the wake of her boundless energy. Elizabeth is slower to stand and follow. There is something not right about this—she is normally not so placid. But this child's words are compelling, and so she follows until the two of them are at the lakeside._

_The little girl is eagerly playing in the shallows, splashing water all over her clothes and laughing merrily as she does so. She gestures for Elizabeth to come closer to the water's edge. _

_"'Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all," she calls out, and suddenly there are children of all ages swarming the banks of the formerly peaceful shoreline, laughing and playing in the water. They brush past her as if she isn't there, merry in their blissful games and innocent shrieks._

_"I don't understand," she repeats, moving closer to the water, her hand still bleeding._

_"Yes, you do," is the maddeningly calm response, "Alfred Tennyson."_

_"No," she says absentmindedly, her attention snarled by a trio of dark-haired, green-eyed children on the lakeside, "he said it." The older girls are teaching the little boy how to skip pebbles across the surface of the water._

_"He did?" the little girl arches a surprised eyebrow for a moment before a mischievous and _knowing_ expression crosses her cherubic face. "Why, yes he _did_."_

_The glee in her voice and saucy smirk are incongruous on such an innocent child, as if she knows the circumstances of the conversation before, during and after that contained those words. Feeling her cheeks heat in embarrassment, Elizabeth looks down at her reflection in the water and gasps quietly._

_Her spring green gown is entirely stained a crimson red and her face seems entirely too pale. Her hair is shorter than she has ever remembered wearing—no, she's had it shorter before, before— She looks up at the child who smiles beatifically and spreads her hands._

_"You know. Yet you don't know." In a blink of an eye, the little girl is standing beside her, a small hand resting lightly on her waist. "You will understand in time. Time takes and gives and takes again."_

_"What?" she manages to stammer in confusion, "I don't understand what you're talking about."_

_"Trust in dreams," she says in blessing, "for in them is the hidden gate to eternity." Then Elizabeth flies forward, breaking under the surface of the water. Before she can even begin to struggle, a vise of power clamps around her, drawing her down and down, deeper into the cold, deeper into the biting freeze of winter. A part of her screams and panics as the sunlight fades from her view, but she is silent and unresisting as she is stolen away from all she knows._

_Darkness settles in, an eternal winter night with neither moon nor stars to guide her home. She cries out for a guide to help her, but hears only silence in reply._

_It is so dark and so cold._

_Only her right hand burns with warmth._

_It feels like a person's hand holding onto hers, quietly vowing never to let her go, ever. She follows the promise; she has nothing to lose and everything to gain if she does. It leads her onward in the night, blindly stumbling towards safety, waiting when she falls for her to pick herself up, guiding her away from obstacles unseen. It does not waver; it does not falter in its strength._

_There is a quiet noise, a noise she can't place, steady and persistent —both familiar and not. She struggles to find the word for the sound. There is a smell, sharp but muted, she knows it as well, but can't name it either. It's as if she exists in two worlds, simultaneously knowing and belonging while not in the same breath. She knows and doesn't know so much that it feels as if the vast amount of knowledge alone will tear her apart._

_She tries to move, only to find her right hand trapped in warmth, warmth that shifts and then tightens its grip on her nearly imperceptibly. It anchors her spinning world, calms its frantic rotation into a gentle stop, a small headache that remains after the pain._

_"Asabeth?" a voice murmurs gently. She knows that voice and the man, except her name isn't Asabeth. Not anymore. She has been given her name, her birth name, and with it, all that it entails—her past, her present, and her future. Who she is, her story entire, she has claimed as her own. She is no longer shattered and broken; she is whole now. In time, she will be whole with all the pieces fitted together, and Asabeth will be simply a name in a long list of names she has been called. But now she will not be called by her adopted name of Asabeth any longer, not by the people who know her well, who can speak of her past, tell of her stories, and name her names. She turns her head and struggles to open her eyes. Calloused fingers gently stroke her forehead and the voice soothes, "Easy, easy, it's okay."_

_It's okay, but not okay at the same time. There is so much that remains to be done, but nothing so pressing as to hurry the moment. She squints in the brightness, and almost immediately the lights dim. Yes, the city still loves him the best. She wonders how she knows that. She does though, from the past, the past she doesn't remember, will remember, does remember._

_He draws back from her, and she watches him as he leans back in his chair. He has been sitting by her bedside, she knows, like she has sat for him._

_"Elizabeth," she whispers hoarsely. He tenses, "I'm sorry?"_

_"It's not Asabeth," she corrects him in a low voice. "My parents called me 'Elizabeth,' didn't they?"_

_"You…remember?" Is that a cautious spark of hope in his eyes? She isn't sure._

_She shakes her head a little, "No, and yes. I will. She promised me."_

_The confusion in his features at her words is clear, but she can't look at him for very long. Her eyes slip closed against her will. She's just so tired. His hand comes up to caress her face again and she revels in the touch—familiar and foreign in the same instant._

_"Sleep," he tells her. "I'll be here when you wake up."_

_She knows he has done everything she's asked for in the past (in his own way, which doesn't always match up to what she expected). She knows he won't lie to her. She knows it will not be the last time she wakes up with him by her side._

_She trusts him._

_So she sleeps as he keeps watch over her._

_Around them, an entire city holds its breath for the new future that comes with tomorrow's dawn._

Sometimes, he dreams that she returns to him, eyes alight with laughter and face glowing with health. The golden sunrise over the water burnishes the color of her hair and illuminates the undeniable fact that she is alive. She greets him with a smile, a wordless gesture that says so much, yet says all that needs to be said between them. They touch, the briefest brushing of hands, and part to attend to their respective duties, knowing that they will continue their dance of devotion to their city, to each other, for the rest of their lives.

On those nights, he sleeps peacefully.

Sometimes, she slips back into dreams, true dreams, not nightmares. She dreams of a sparkling city that floats lightly on an endless sea, full of unfamiliar wonders and discoveries to be patiently uncovered by the people who live there. She knows, in the peculiar way of dreams, these people are the blood-family she prays for, the ones she awaits, and that among them, there is a man who waits for her on a quiet balcony overlooking the calm sea. With his presence alone, he offers her security and comfort. He will never let her go when she comes to him and she will never turn away from him.

On those nights, she sleeps peacefully.

_This is their eternity._


End file.
